


teammates

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, england nt - Freeform, three lions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:57:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the tournament goes on, Eric’s profile grows, Daniel Sturridge asks a favour, Dele learns to be a better teammate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	teammates

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this before the Iceland game tomorrow. I do like my NT and think we have talented players, but Roy Hodgson is a dinosaur, and should have been let go in 2014.

Eric sat at the edge his bed, biting at the cuticle of his index finger as he scrolled through the texts from his family and friends, deep in thought. 

Unlike their digs in Chantilly which boasted individual rooms with panoramic views and parquet floors; the hotel UEFA officials placed the teams when they travelled to matches from their base were much more modest. 

As in - shared rooms, twin beds with a modest ensuite, a window looking out at a parking lot and TV without canal +.

Dropping his phone on the bed beside him, Eric buried his face in his hands. He lifted his head as the bathroom door squeaked open with Dele stepping out, kit bag in hand, clad in grey Nike t-shirt and heathered grey shorts given to everyone on the national team.

Normally, Dele had the temperament to throw things off easily, but even he seemed subdued tonight, sitting cross legged on top of the bed covers on the bed across from Eric’s, his kit bag on the night table in between their beds. 

“Another draw,” Eric gritted out, his voice tight. “Another game, another draw.”

“Second in the group.”

Eric swore under his breath, fluid and long. 

“And the teams we might face are..?” Eric asked, not because he didn’t know, as much as he wanted to have any sort of conversation. 

“Hungary, Iceland, Austria or-” and at this Dele paused, half covering his mouth with the heel of his hand, elbow resting on his thigh. Eric held his tongue, refusing to think it as the unsaid name hummed in the air between them. 

“Portugal,” Dele said, throwing the name out there with the finality like you would a winning hand at a poker game. “Ronaldo.”

Eric rubbed at his temples with his fingers. “We could have won tonight, if Daniel had just- ”

“Slovakia defended deep and -” 

“We weren’t good enough. Did you see Wilshire’s form tonight? Nightmare.”

Dele’s humming silence enough of an answer, because he had seen it. 

Eric knew he had, seeing Dele seated on the edge on the sidelines, eyes scanning back and forth as the game played out before him. Jack Wilshire’s form wretched, as if he’d been on a pub crawl the night before; two seconds and two touches behind everyone. 

“We had twenty nine shots to their three,” Eric pushed himself from the bed and started to pace, half wishing he were on a field somewhere, but recognising that he needed to rest as the length of their day tugged at him. As the tournament wore on, you didn’t just leave the field after play, but had to do press commitments afterwards. During this tournament, Eric found himself being asked to more and more . “ _Twenty nine_.”

“Nate created seven chances, and at the end of it, we just-” he broke off in a frustrated sigh, chin dropping to his chest for a few seconds before he lifted his head, looking at Dele over his shoulder. Dele now snuggled under the thin covers against the crank of the a/c his eyelashes dark fans against his cheeks, mouth slack. He’d already dozed off, iphone cradled in his open hand. 

Chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, Eric stepped over to rescue Dele’s phone from his loosened fingers. Still restless, but unable to pace anymore, he sat at the edge of Dele’s bed, fingers curling over its edge. Felt when Dele shifted his body on the mattress, his fingers brushing against the back of Eric’s hand. Although Dele’s fingers always felt as if they’d just been taken out of the supermarket chiller, his touch was always welcome, as Eric turned his hand palm up, their fingers threading together. 

“We’ll sort it.”

“If we don’t?”

Dele’s eyes now half open under lowered lashes, his laugh thickened with sleep. “Then we’re fucked, I guess.”

***

“He doesn’t know, does he?”

Dele yawned widely at Harry’s question, dragging his hoodie over his head. The morning after the night before, now back at their Chantilly base and helping himself to a covered plate from the spread at the far side of the room. 

Per arrangement, the hotel offered the team a light lunch in a really upscale conservatory; bleached wooden floors, glass from floor to ceiling, letting in the views of the gentle rolling green, with tidy rows of trees in the distance. 

Although they’d been here for two weeks, the view never got old. Dragging his eyes from the view before him, Dele looked at the meal on his plate. Smoked salmon with croissants and regional cheese, served with a bit of local pastry and jam on the side. 

“Who?” Dele asked before taking a bite from his improvised salmon and cheese sandwich. 

Not that Harry was one to do it often, but he had a stare that could stop you short. Level, eyes narrow and a frigid blue, his face blank, bordering on cold. Relenting, Dele shook his head. 

“I don’t think so,” Dele rolled his shoulders. “We got told off for looking at social media after that Sterling thing, remember?”

Harry took a sip of juice, starting out at the view before them. “Well, let’s just say, no one is making a _‘go fund me’_ account for Dier to return home.”

“He’s been brilliant.”

“Yeah, he has,” Harry agreed. “I’m absolutely buzzing for him.”

You couldn’t help but be, Dele thought as he scrolled through his phone, looking at the Euro app and seeing another accolade for Eric. 

MOTM, articles about the English/Portuguese hybrid style of play ranging from straightforward praise; _England’s most important player_ , to something a lot more eager _; Tottenham’s midfielder has been excellent in France – urgent, quietly assertive, at times doing his job simply by standing still in the right areas_. His favourite player to watch growing up was Roy Keane? Dele shook his head at the thought of Eric admiring a Manchester United player, the Liverpool fan in him offended. 

_Jeez, Eric, you’re a windup_

“You’re jealous.”

“No.”

That look _again_. Harry must have been a headteacher in his past life or something, thought Dele, as he shifted in his chair. He looked around, half surprised to see that they were the only ones in this part of the hotel, but he still kept his voice low as he admitted, “I don’t know.”

Harry raised his eyebrows as Dele dragged his hand down his face in frustration. “You don’t play fair,” he muttered, annoyed. “I’m chuffed for him, but-”

“I know,” Harry said, with a nod, his smile wry. “I know.”

***

“Iceland.”

The result flashed on the screen in the gaming lounge, as the UEFA announcers discussed the result. Satisfied, the players drifted away from the centre of the room towards the exit, like dandelion florets on a gentle breeze. 

Daniel Sturridge - whose mood tended to swing from stoicism to warm exuberance, decided on stoicism this time- his lips quirking at the corners, diamond stud in his nose glinting in the sun against the teak of his skin. Arms folded across his chest, eyes trained on screen. Like everyone else, he’d dressed for the day in the England horizontal striped polo shirt, navy sweat bottoms with dark coloured sneakers. 

“All right,” he nodded to himself as if he’d come to his own conclusions on the draw, as he slid a look to Dele. “What do you know about Iceland, Dele?”

Dele frowned, half perched on his seat as he scrolled through his phone, tapping the name into Safari. “Iceland’s population is the size of Leicester,” he started, voice warm with sympathy at Kyle Walker’s scowl in the background. 

Even though they’d all put it behind them and made peace with the Leicester lads in the camp when they got the call up to the NT, it still stung at times. He also knew that Eric and Harry carried the hurt of conceding the title race deep and sharp in their bones, more so than himself at turns. 

“Oh, right?” Daniel rocked back and forth on his heels. 

“You might not want to do that, mate,” Adam Lallana cracked, as he brushed alongside Daniel’s shoulder, “you might get injured.” At Sturridge’s V fingered salute, Adam laughed as he walked off. 

The room now emptied, Dele still sat on the edge of the chair, eyes on the screen, seeing the brackets and how the teams set out from there, half surprised when he heard his name being called and realising that Daniel was still here. 

“Sorry?” Dele asked.

“You lads were neck to neck with Leicester, what do you think our chances are with Iceland?”

“Totally different thing, mate,” Dele answered, tearing his eyes away from the screen to look at Daniel. 

Daniel shrugged, and Dele just realised it was his way of starting a conversation. Leaning back in his seat, Dele fixed his eyes on Daniel, waiting to see where this was going.

“About Raheem,” Daniel started, as he dropped into the seat opposite Dele. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a bit emotionally under the weather, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dele nodded, Sterling’s troubles with the fans and the media was well known around camp to the point where it had bruised his confidence. The troubles so well known to the point of directives hitting the players, asking them to limit their posting on social media, and in the same breath banning players from reading said social media. 

Yeah, right. 

“Not that you’re _not_ -you’re a good lad- but -”

“No nutmegs?” 

Daniel grinned, probably relieved at Dele himself cutting to the chase. “I know that’s beyond you, I’ve seen you have a go at Dier and Wilshire in training. But if you can hold off until Raheem isn’t so- you know.”

Dele raised an eyebrow, cocked his head to the side as he thought of the question. 

Up to now, Daniel seemed relatively distant in training- wait, that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t necessarily vicious with the banter like Vardy could be, wasn’t as loopily easy going as H., nor did he have the sharp points of humour like Harty. 

To be fair to Daniel, he seemed to be someone who was willing to put an arm around someone’s shoulder who needed it, like he did with Raheem and Rashford at camp. Dele didn’t need an arm around his shoulder, and _even_ if he did, he had Eric, H., Walks and Danny. 

Wazza, to his credit, had been a good captain so far.

“Mate,” Dele answered with a frown, wondering if he misunderstood Daniel’s oblique request, “it’s a contest for the starting XI.”

Daniel stilled, his fingers stopping in mid tap on the armrest of the chair. 

His mouth twisted in an irritated moue, and Dele felt the chill of that distance Daniel could do at times, before he raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Fair dues.” He pushed himself from the chair, got to his feet and left the room with his characteristic swagger, leaving Dele all alone. 

To reflect on the conversation, the ask and his answer. 

_Have a look at yourself right now, lad,_ Dele thought, as he realised, the view was not pretty.

“Buggery,” Dele hissed as he sprinted out of his chair, lunging to the doorway, ready to sprint down the hall to catch Daniel if he had to. “Sturridge,” he raised his voice, but not too loudly, since they were in a hotel- he had manners, after all.

Daniel stopped, already halfway down the quiet hallway, the lower half of his face obscured by his shoulder. 

“I can give him five minutes,” Dele said, resting his hand against the doorframe, feeling his face heat because he wasn’t one to give favours when it came to competition easily. “Before the nutmegs, I mean.”

Daniel turned around completely now, his smile completely warm and relieved. “Thanks.”

***

After training, a few people tarried in order to practice their penalty kicks, with Tom Heaton in goal.

The summer sun still high in the sky over the leafy trees, the distant hum of drones buzzing around above. The chill in the Chantilly air reminded Dele of training under English skies at Hotspur way. Absently, he tugged the sleeves at his wrists, slipping his thumb through the thumbholes of his long sleeved training top. 

“Iceland,” Eric said in lieu of greeting as he stood beside Dele, both of them wincing in sympathy as Harry did a stuttering run towards the ball resting nine metres from goal and he- skied it. 

“It just means the next one will be better,” Harry said with a cheer, as he ran off to collect the ball. 

For someone whose form might have been rivalling Sterling’s, Harry never seemed to be dragged down by expectations. Dele was about to turn around and make a comment, until Raheem’s attempt at a penalty went wide. 

“This is a joke,” Eric hissed, intensity set to eleven, eyes dark with emotion. “They know that Iceland is going to try and play for the one twenty and take us to penalties, right?”

“The England way,” Dele chirped, because as an England supporter, you recognised the theme. “You get through the margin of one nil and then go out on penalties.”

“Which,” Eric said, in haughty tones, “we’re trying to change.”

“I know,” Dele answered, not wanting to needle Eric anymore. “That’s why we’re here, remember?” 

Eric took a step back, head down, his hair the colour of corn silk in the light of the weak summer sun. He traced a figure eight in the grass with the toe of his boot, looking all of six. 

Dele drew him into a one armed hug, bringing their heads close together. Close enough to smell the mint chews Eric favoured between training times, Eric’s forehead warm and dewy against his. Another breath, before Eric’s arm snaked around his lower back. 

 

“We’ll get better,” Dele murmured, as he gave Eric’s shoulder a squeeze. 

“And if we don’t?” Eric’s voice sounded mutinously close to petulance, as if he were six, and on the naughty step.

“We pay for it. Live to fight another day.”

Dele felt the emotions as they played across Eric’s face; his deepening frown, saw the unhappy slant of his mouth from the corner of his eye. He knew Eric wanted to argue otherwise; but tournament football wasn’t like a season’s league of football, where you had the length of time unspooling before you to get caught up. You could play yourself out of a rut and into form, or the other way around. 

Tournament football was ruthless, you showed up to play on the day, or you got shown out the door. 

“I don’t want to go home, not now,” Eric breathed, “I know we’re not clicking as yet, and stumbling instead of running, but-” he pulled away, enough for their eyes to meet, his face brightening, blue eyes wide under his fringe. “This is what I wanted.”

“We might be stumbling, but you’re doing great,” Dele admitted, and that feeling stole across him again whenever he thought about Eric’s good form. A pin prick of professional jealousy, washed away by a deep pleasure which swelled and pressed against his sternum, because the world was now seeing what Dele saw everyday. 

Eric’s stare still direct, and he didn’t blush, nor did he dip his head from false modesty. Once Pochettino gave you the nod, he expected you to be good. 

“My form means nothing if we don’t win,” Eric’s smile dimmed, “cliché, but true. Besides -” his smile still held that soft mist from earlier. “We can’t go before you get a goal.”

Dele returned the grin, and like that, Eric’s face the only thing in view, any lingering traces of envy forever gone. 

“Diet,” he said, his tone a mockery of surprise. “That sounds like an order.”

“I can’t be the only Spurs player with a goal- and I’m not even an AM or a forward. It would be a shambles.”

“You’re a shambles,” Dele retorted, his heart doing triple time as Eric laughed, breath gusting across his face. 

“Yeah,” Eric leaned forward, the ends of his fringe tickling Dele’s forehead, their faces inches from each other's, the air spiking with anticipation. “I am.”

A long, loud whistle pierced the air, causing Dele to half jump away from Eric, hands falling to their sides. Both of them the recipients of a vaguely annoyed look from Harry, standing akimbo in the middle of the field, a foot on the ball. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Harry began. 

“No need to be sorry,” Eric shot Harry a smile, Dele covered his mouth with his hand, stifling his giggles only to find himself silenced by Harry’s withering glare. 

“Sorry, H.,” Dele murmured. “You were saying?”

“Everyone’s gone inside,” Harry made an expansive gesture, and belatedly Dele realised the truth of it, the kitmen picking up the balls, and stacking the cones in the background. “While you two were giggling in the penny section.”

“Sorry,” Dele repeated, and meant it this time, only for Harry to wave the slight away. 

“Have you seen our next team? Iceland.”

“They have Sigurdsson,” Eric rubbed at the nape of his neck, exhaling on a gust of breath. A short respectful silence at that, as they all remembered Gylfi Sigurdsson’s set pieces in the Premier League, plus a long range shooting ability teamed with a GPS of a foot. 

Absolutely frightening. 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Harry conceded, a general rallying his troops. “Since they’re here, they deserve to be, right?”

You couldn’t argue with that. 

“So, we break tomorrow, I’d invite you lot to golf, but -”

“I’d break your nine iron and lose half your balls in the lake or something.”

“Quite, and for that reason- you’re not invited.” Harry finished with a flourish, dragging his studs on the ball, flicking it to life. “Night, chaps.”

With that, Harry left, the ball bouncing at his feet like a loyal hound. 

“What shall we do tomorrow?” Dele asked, as they started walking towards the edge of the field, the backs of their hands brushing each other. The bus would be on its second round trip for stragglers at the training ground, like them.

“There’s horse racing? I don’t know if you’d have to wear a top hat though...”

“Like Ascot?”

“Yeah, no,” Eric shook his head. “We'll do anything else, as long as it’s not about Iceland.”

Because a problem shared was a problem spared, Dele bumped Eric’s shoulder with his, grinning when Eric bumped back.“Do you know its population is the same size as Leicester?”

“And _definitely_ not about Leicester.”

Fin

**Author's Note:**

>   * After Sterling's poor performances in the Euros, a fan set up a JustGiving page set up to 'bring Raheem Sterling home' from Euro 2016 [supposedly Sterling's confidence is shattered and he's getting counselling ](http://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/greater-manchester-news/raheem-sterling-justgiving-page-home-11487042)
>   * Daniel Sturridge has been talking Sterling up. They're still quite close. Euro 2016: England's Raheem Sterling one of world's best - Daniel Sturridge [you can read that here](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/football/36629932)
>   * Eric Dier has been England's stand out player of the tournament [an example ](https://www.theguardian.com/football/blog/2016/jun/17/euro-2016-england-eric-dier-man-of-match-wales)
> 



End file.
